It’s all a dream:
The lowest moments
And the greatest,
The imperfections
And the changes
Made by the mind
To what was by the mind,
Confused,
Created;
/
It doesn’t hurt, really,
When in my nightmares
Hungry demons
Gnaw at my bones
And rip to pieces
The magic heart
That every morning
I find unfailingly
Beating in my chest;
/
It is all a mirage:
This face, this body,
Their existence
And their ultimate
Disintegration;
There’s nothing wrong
With pieces breaking,
Cracks manifesting
On the unforgiving skin
/
Painted over
Emptiness
In thick colors
Of fear
Named and signed
By the artist,
‘Me’ –
Both as a sentence
And a key
/
To freedom
A sense of the ‘transient’ nature of life is given in the poem.
Thank you for reading! I wrote the poem about the mind creating life and destroying it, over and over again; about each life being one of many, like a painting in a gallery.